


Chasing Things You Should Run From

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Break Up, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Making Up, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 08:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4618524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even two weeks ago, Aramis wouldn't have been able to picture any situation in which he could break up with Porthos. Now, the clarity comes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Things You Should Run From

**Author's Note:**

> Written for (two) requests and originally posted [here](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/post/127169855112/drabbles-ok-so-i-dont-know-if-youll-like-this), for a break-up fic based off a prompt from the CHVRCHES song; opening lyrics & fic title come from their song "Tether".

_I'm feeling capable of  
Seeing the end_

_I'm feeling capable of  
Saying it's over_

-

 

“I don’t understand,” Porthos says, quiet, pained – and looking as if he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop, for it to all be some kind of misguided, jealousy-fueled joke from Aramis. It wouldn’t be the first time Aramis has carried on because of his own ridiculousness – and usually Porthos knows how to coax Aramis away from those feelings. But now—

Now Aramis is firm on this – he couldn’t imagine this being the case even two weeks ago. But it’s different now. He feels clearer in his mind now, clearer in what it is he has to do—

(He remembers the moment, walking out of the spare room and seeing Alice and Porthos sitting at the kitchen table, Porthos’ hand holding hers as they laughed, drinking coffee. Alice is bed-rumpled and beautiful and Aramis painfully, truly hates her in this moment. Hates her because she is beautiful and wonderful, talented and gentle, hates her because Porthos loves her and it’s clear in that sleepy morning sunlight, his face lax with sleep, his eyes soft with adoration. Porthos and Aramis have never been purely exclusive – Aramis has loved so many and Porthos has always been there when he comes home. Alice is the first woman Porthos has dated in such a long time and Aramis can’t even give Porthos the benefit of support, can’t even give him the benefit of loving him without the searing, painful slam of jealousy twisted up deep in his gut. She is wonderful and he can’t stand it. 

She is wonderful and Porthos loves her. Suddenly, the world stretches out in front of Aramis’ eyes looking at the two at the table together. He can see it in perfect clarify, a life in which Porthos has everything he deserves: a beautiful woman who loves him, a family, a house together, waking up side by side every morning and knowing they’ve made the right decision to promise themselves to one another forever. One another alone. Aramis does not fit into that picture. Aramis could never fit into that picture.)

“Aramis,” Porthos says again, now, quieter and looking as if he’ll reach for him – but Aramis can only think of that scene playing out, a happy family sitting around a table. A man, a woman, probably at least three children because Porthos is strong and gentle and would be a perfect father. Aramis does not fit there. He could never fit there. 

“I’m sure,” Aramis says, with more surety than he feels. If he wavers, that will be it. If he wavers, that will be— “It’s better this way.”

“Okay,” Porthos says, cautiously, in the way that shows it isn’t okay but he’s trying to keep calm until he figures out where Aramis stands. He takes a step towards him. 

And maybe it’d be so much easier if Porthos would just stop being understanding, stop looking so pained. It’d be better if Porthos were to smile and say _oh thank God you think so, too._ (No, Araims thinks, that wouldn’t be better.)

Porthos is looking at him – gentled, but frustrated. “Can we – look, let’s talk about this?” 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Aramis answers, thinks he should maybe feel a little more hysterical than this – and yet he has never felt more certain than he does in this moment, has never been able to picture, fully, what a break-up would be like. He’d always assumed, deep down, so very deep down, that it would be Porthos realizing he could do better, that it would be Porthos who grew tired of him. He can’t see what it’ll be like for him now – but he knows it’ll be better for Porthos, in the end. Porthos will be happy.

Porthos will be happy. 

This is what he tells himself as he flings on his coat and moves out the door before Porthos can think to reach for him. 

 

-

 

Aramis had it all planned out – leave for a few hours, wander around and feel sorry for himself, and then perhaps return to lick his wounds and be done with it. It’ll give him time to settle down. Better to leave Porthos to find solace in Alice’s arms. Or, to just forget about him. Better. He retreats to his own apartment – dusty and uneven since his last visit, he spends so much of his time in Porthos’ place they’d even joked at one point about moving in together. Thinking of that now makes his heart clench up and he makes a pathetic little sound as he brushes his fingers along the countertop and removes a layer of dust. He barely ever stays here. There’s the stale smell in the air of needing to open the windows, to clean, to do something productive and _Porthosless._

It’ll be better this way. He’s probably with Alice right now, getting some much needed comfort. He’ll be sad for a little while, Aramis thinks, and then he’ll forget about him and it’ll go back to normal. But Aramis isn’t quite sure what normal is – he’s been with Porthos for years, friends long before that. He doesn’t know what it means now to not have Porthos in his life. 

He’s thinking on this when he turns the corner and nearly startles out of his skin when Porthos is standing right there, arms crossed and leaning against the kitchen table. 

“Porthos!” Aramis gasps out, sways, and then recovers. “What are you doing here?” 

“We’re talking,” Porthos says, pulls away from the table and jerks a chair out. He points first at Aramis and then at the chair. Then he steps away. “Sit down.” 

Aramis is almost petulant, almost protests – but then, he could never deny Porthos anything, and not when he’s looking at him the way he does – pained, confused, but like Aramis is everything to him. Aramis looks down and shuffles to the chair, dropping down into it. Porthos moves to sit across the table from him, calm and quiet. 

“Alright,” Porthos says, careful. “What happened, then? Where did this even come from?” 

Aramis stares down at the table, lips pursed. He knows the moment he says the reason, Porthos’ response will likely be to tell him he’s an idiot. He doesn’t want to go back on this – if anything, Porthos deserves to have everything he deserves. Aramis doesn’t fit into that. 

When Aramis doesn’t say anything Porthos asks, quiet and uncertain, “Are you upset with me? You gotta tell me if I do something wrong.”

“No,” Aramis answers, hurriedly. “You didn’t do anything – you’re. You’re perfect. You’re always perfect.” 

Aramis glances up in time to see Porthos frown to himself, embarrassed at the words. He’s always been embarrassed by that kind of praise. Aramis remembers with perfect clarity the first time he ever told Porthos he was handsome – and he’d looked away and blushed, smiling to himself because he didn’t believe it but was also happy. 

“Then what is it?” Porthos asks, more earnestly now. He reaches out, touches at Aramis’ hand across the table and Aramis can’t even remember to remove his hand, can’t even remember the mechanics of exes. Every ex he’s ever had has ended horribly. It will be the same with Porthos, he realizes. Porthos will hate him. 

Aramis tries to speak. “It’s…”

But he trails off, feeling stupid, feeling foolish – needing this to end, because it will be better for Porthos, but not wanting it to end. Not wanting to say goodbye. He’s gone about this an entirely stupid way, he realizes. 

Porthos is looking at him. And then something seems to click for him because he breathes out, looks up at the ceiling like he can’t believe the fool he’s in love with, and then squeezes Aramis’ hand as he looks back at him.

“You want to know what I think?” Porthos asks.

“What?” Aramis mutters, because he doesn’t know what else to say. 

“I think,” Porthos says, tracing his thumb over his knuckles, “You got an idea in your head and now you’re afraid to let go of it. Or tell me the reason because you know I’ll disagree.” 

Aramis makes a soft sound – neither confirmation or denial. Which, after years of knowing him, is probably answer enough for Porthos.

Porthos touches at his wrist, then traces his fingertips up along his forearm, then turns his hand so that he can trace over Aramis’ palm. 

“I think,” Porthos says, “You don’t actually want to break up with me. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going to stand up, pick you up out of that chair, and take you back to that room over there.” He jerks his head back over towards Aramis’ bedroom. He continues, “And then I’m going to remind you you’re an idiot and we’ll go from there, yeah?” 

Aramis blinks at him, and then gives a tentative smile. “Will you do that thing with your—”

But Porthos is already standing from his chair, crossing around the table, and scooping Aramis up. They’re relatively the same height and size, and yet he always manages to lift him up like it’s nothing, and Aramis’ hands first touch at his arms in appreciation and then his arms move to their usual position of curling around Porthos’ neck.

Porthos looks at him as he carries him and he says, gruff, and a little more firmly – betraying the hurt that Aramis knows is there, “I absolutely refuse to break up with you. Don’t fight it.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) should you want to reach me for whatever reason.


End file.
